


Les Paradis Artificiels

by Violsva



Series: Arte Regendus [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Period-Typical Sexism, Recreational Drug Use, Slash, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has a number of bad habits, but Watson has put up with all of them for years without objection. That may not continue, which is an inconvenient realization to have right before an interesting – but possibly too personally relevant – case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Paradis Artificiels

Everything was sparkling with brilliance, and perfectly wonderful. I could think as fast as I wished, ideas and experiments fully forming themselves in seconds, to be worked on later. It was divine; I could no longer recall the dejection I had felt a day ago in my lack of work. My thoughts could run themselves without outward stimulation, now. What I could focus on was utterly clear, and what I couldn’t didn’t matter.

I lay in a state of utter happiness, ready to act at any second but capable of waiting for the need, rather than leaping up and pacing, or finding myself something to work on. When Watson returned, I would take him to bed as I had not done in days. Early on the drug had led to frantic activity, but I had adjusted the dosage until I found a formula with appropriate properties. I reached out to my cigarette case on the side table and lit one.

The world had a system, of justice, of destiny, so glorious, so perfect and laid out before me and nothing for me to do but watch. Watch, and lay my hand on the scales when they needed it, bring them just back to true. All of it was in my power, to run, fix, balance. But I needed to think for that, think faster and more clearly, not be bound by petty rules and limited vision and useless assistance.

It was beginning to fade away, I realized, filtering out of my blood as quickly as it had gone in. I reached for my morocco leather case and prepared another dose, taking my time about measuring it. I had time, all the time I wished. I did not need the drug, only enjoyed it. I twirled the syringe by a finger caught in one of the metal loops at the top.

Watson walked in.

I must have used more than I had thought, to not have been paying enough attention to hear him on the stairs. But I would not have expected it to be a problem. He was a doctor, after all – he knew quite well the benefits of cocaine for the system. In Germany it was even being used as an anaesthetic – and I had seen that in one of his own medical journals. That he had not seen me taking it before was mostly a coincidence, and he had certainly seen me affected by it.

But he stared at me, stricken, and said, “My God, Holmes.”

He might think it something else, I realized. “Good heavens, Watson, you look quite horrified,” I said. “It is only cocaine.”

“Only – my dear Holmes, that’s not something to be playing with.”

“Playing?” I asked, stung.

“Well, what are you using it for? An experiment?” Hope in his voice, which explained the ridiculous guess. Surely there was enough evidence about that this was not a first trial, and that I had no damned case to experiment _for_.

“Not at all. It stimulates my mind.” He was still standing in the middle of the room, holding his hat and a parcel as if he had completely forgotten about them.

“Surely you have not been so very bored as that?” he asked – again ridiculous. He knew very well how I had been for a week now.

“Comparatively not,” I answered. “When I was younger it was morphine.”

“Good Lord, Holmes!”

“You see why the cocaine,” I told him, though in fact the physical need for it had gone years ago. “And it is a wonderful distraction, when times are slim.”

He did not look any happier. “You have been taking it the entire time I have known you, then?” he asked. “I think I would not have missed morphine withdrawal.”

“Yes, the morphine was before you,” I assured him. “I shouldn’t need it now.”

“So you do not need that physically, either,” he said, looking at the syringe I still held. “Holmes, do you not see the danger of it?”

“But I take this rarely, Watson, only when I need the stimulation. When I have them, I far prefer cases – they are of more use, more purpose.” That seemed to brighten him. Why was he taking this so poorly? Besides the surprise, that is.

“But surely the stimulation from this is not worth the rest?”

“Worth it? I should say so. It is so transcendently clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment.”

“But consider!” he said. “Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process which involves increased tissue-change and may at least leave a permanent weakness. Would you risk your brilliant mind for a passing pleasure?”

“Give me problems!” I told him. “Give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. Then I will dispense with artificial stimulants.”

“I have something for you in that line, I think. But Holmes, you can’t need the cocaine for such things. You are brilliant on your own, you shouldn’t so strain your body for the sake of your mind. And – Holmes, you must realize that it is at least partly responsible for the black moods that come over you. Remember that I am not only your – your friend, but your doctor, or the closest thing you have to one.”

“I don’t need a doctor, Watson. Just you.”

I badly wanted to take another dose; all through the conversation I had been fighting melancholy and irritation. But I did not like to, somehow, with him in the room clearly disapproving. I returned the hypodermic to its case and the case to the side table. Besides, with Watson home I had a new source of some interest, one he would like better. I tilted my head and examined him.

“My love -” he began.

“Books, Watson?” I asked, smiling at him. “I suppose I cannot argue that we have enough of the things, since half of them are mine. Leeson’s shop, I see. But you met someone you knew there, and had lunch with him. Not someone from your schooldays – a friend from the Army.”

He set his parcel of books on the table, and considered for a second, before giving in. “My dear Holmes, how on earth do you do that?” he asked, turning back to me. It was a little too hearty to be real.

“Your shoes,” I told him. “You know I can recognize most of the mud in London. You stepped on that spot where they are fixing the paving in Charing Cross Road. There is only one shop there with an assistant quite that bad at tying knots, and besides you can make out the edges of the covers at that corner. Look how it curves in.”

“I suppose,” he said, smiling at me and sitting down. Thank God. “But meeting my friend?”

“Oh,” I said, seeing the meaning of his expression now that it had flickered back. He had had it for a second upon entering, before the bright anticipation and happiness had been replaced by shock. “You have a case for me, Watson!”

He laughed. “I might. How did you know about Thurston?”

“You hate dining alone in public,” I said. “Yet you have spilled a little tea on your cuff since I saw you last, so you must have had company. You’re still holding yourself upright as you do when reminded of the Army.” That wasn’t the only hint – he was also relying on his cane more than usual, so this Thurston must be wounded as well. It reminded me of when I had first seen him, in pain but held up by pride and remembered duty. Something important had called it to his mind. “And your card case has changed pockets since you left, so he must be someone you haven’t seen in years.”

“You are amazing,” he said, smiling. I had been living with him nearly four years, more than two of those intimately, and I was not tired of those words, or that particular smile. “Do you observe me that closely?”

“Always,” I said without thinking. “I want to know everything about you.” His face turned purely happy, not worried or puzzled or even in awe. I was caught by it like iron filings by a magnet.

He rose from his armchair and sat next to me to kiss me. It could only be for a moment, until one of us – I do not remember which – recalled the unlocked door, but for that moment it was blissful. I sighed after it was over, and he smiled with a little regret and then said, “I do have a case for you, I think. Would you like to hear of it?”

“Of course I would,” I said, rather vehemently. He was not going to tempt me with a case and then forget about it. “You have an excellent understanding of my tastes. Tell me what’s happened to Thurston.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Thurston is excellent, considering his wound – he’s engaged, in fact. It’s his fiancée, or rather her uncle.”

“Indeed?”

“Well,” said Watson, “he seems to have gone mad.”

“Seems to have?” I asked, leaning back against the armrest. Watson only takes so much trouble to be precise when he is thinking carefully over what he has heard.

“Yes. I did ask Thurston to come here,” he said. “He’ll be round after he’s finished a few errands, he said. He could tell you himself.”

“Tell me what he told _you_ first,” I said. “I should like a summary before he comes.” Watson has a beautiful voice, and I am quite happy to give him every opportunity to use it.

“All right.” He leaned back to organize his thoughts for a moment. Even without his excellent notes his memory is quite good, for an amateur. “Thurston’s fiancée is Miss Millicent Warburton. Her father was stationed in India, where Thurston met her, but he died recently and she returned home. Shortly before that Thurston had been shot in the right arm and declared unfit for duty. He released Miss Warburton from their attachment when it happened, but as soon as she returned home she wrote to him and renewed it.

“She has been living with her father’s family, including her uncle, Colonel Warburton – he served in the Crimea – and his children. But her uncle, who doted on her when she was younger, has been seen less and less. He spends most of his time alone in his room, and his children say that he has acted strangely, sometimes violently, when he is with them. He has always been quite himself to her, but she hasn’t seen him often.”

“His children are?”

“A son and a daughter, both married.”

“Thank you. Continue.”

“There’s not much more. Warburton’s children are considering sending him to an asylum. Miss Warburton is horrified by the very idea. Thurston asked me as a doctor if I had any ideas as to what was happening, but I told him I couldn’t diagnose a man I’d never met.” Watson twisted his mouth a little; he feels he is out of practice, despite reading all the medical journals he can find and occasionally volunteering his time at a charity clinic. “But I think it may be more your sort of case than mine, so I told him to come to you.”

“On what basis?”

“It struck me as peculiar, that the head of a family should be quite healthy and sane whenever he is with his niece, but violent with his children. It is of course common for madness to discriminate so, but Miss Warburton had been in India for ten years. It seems unlikely that the Colonel would be so comfortable around someone he has not seen since she was a child, but not with those he lives with. If they are mistreating him some way, though, that would explain it. He may still be mad, but they might be aggravating it. If it is unintentional, I can tell them what they are doing wrong; if for some reason they are purposefully provoking him you would be able to tell.”

“The only reason it would be is money,” I said. Watson shrugged.

“He couldn’t tell me much about that, of course.” Discomfort in his voice. Reasonable; he wouldn’t like to speculate about strangers’ finances, and more importantly I had been inaccurate. The only _logical_ reason for such behaviour would be financial gain, but illogical behaviour toward relatives was common enough, as Watson as a doctor would know. But the bell rang, and a few seconds later, when Watson had removed himself to his armchair, Thurston was shown up.

He held his right arm close to his body, but there was no sign of other injuries. His shoes were neat, with only the dust of shops and the tidier London streets, and had recently been cleaned thoroughly and professionally – by a boot boy. Most likely staying in a hotel, then. His pocket held a black notebook, bookmarked by numerous telegrams and a paper with the letterhead of the London Stock Exchange. No sign of parcels, from the bookstore or the errands Watson had spoken of – he’d returned to his hotel after meeting Watson but before coming here. Clothing well out of fashion but good when bought – wealthy before the Army, then several years of rarely needing such things, then a return to civilian life with fewer funds. Watson had been in India in 1879. They could not have become close friends then, unless Thurston had been sent to Afghanistan as well, but had known each other well enough to remember and to take comfort from shared misfortune now. Fine but old chain to his pocket watch – he came from money, some of which had been lost while he was away (but he was not living in the family home – likely he was a younger son). Cravat tied not ostentatiously, and with a couple creases – no valet, and out of uniform long enough for the motions to become automatic. Powerfully built, but had lost some muscle recently – say six to nine months in England by the fading of his tan, less than a year since the wound. Aged approximately 35, brown eyes, dark hair and moustache, mole on the right side of his jaw, square features. Rather attractive in a conventional sense.

Watson was welcoming him to take a seat, and had just begun to introduce us. Major James Thurston. Accent from Northumberland and a good public school. Handshake – he was right-handed, the wound still pained him, likely permanent disability, but I could tell nothing else from it with the injury changing matters. God, I had missed this.

“Now then,” I said, leaning back and considering him, “tell me of your difficulties.”

He glanced at Watson – clients often do, for a variety of reasons. In this case it was hope for reassurance rather than suspicion. “Well,” he said, “I shouldn’t like to interfere normally, but Millicent’s very upset by it all. I thought – I should begin at the beginning. I knew Millicent in India; she was the daughter of the Lieutenant-Colonel in my regiment. She’d been there since she was about ten, and when her mother died a few years ago she wanted to stay with her father rather than go home. We had just – come to an understanding when I was shot, in a damned routine patrol that happened to go a bit wrong. Terrible luck.” He grimaced, and tensed his arm unconsciously.

“I was sent home, and I thought that was over, but about two months after I arrived in England Warburton died of an aneurysm, and Millicent returned to her family in England – nowhere else to go, my poor dear. And she wrote to me as if there was no reason why she shouldn’t.” I had gathered most of this from Watson, but needed to hear Thurston say it as well. His expression and mannerisms never suggested he was lying, and when he spoke of Miss Warburton his affection and gratitude were clear.

“How long ago was this?” I asked.

“I returned eight months ago. Millicent has been living with the Warburtons since the spring. They have a fine large house near Nantwich, in Cheshire, which has been in the family for some centuries, I believe. The head of the family is her uncle, the Colonel, who has two children, Thomas Warburton and Rosalind Mitchell.

“When Millicent arrived home, she said, everything seemed quite comfortable. She had not seen her uncle and cousins in ten years, since she was a child, but Warburton had been fond of her then and was still more fond of her when she returned. They were great friends by two months into her time in England, when suddenly and without explanation he began to withdraw, and spend most of his time alone in his own suite of rooms in the house. Millicent was of course very hurt by this, but as she could not get any reason for such behaviour from him she asked her cousins if they knew what the matter was.

“They told her that Warburton believes he is going mad, and they have seen him behave in such a manner that they suspect it to be the truth. He has, on occasion, even been violent with his son. He did not wish to tell Millicent, being ashamed and not wanting her to be horrified by it, but his children thought it best that she know in case further action becomes necessary. They think that it may soon; according to his son Warburton is only getting worse, and they may need to send him to an asylum for his own protection.

“Millicent, of course, is shocked by the idea, and cannot believe that the Colonel could be violent or unable to control himself. I thought that Watson, as a doctor and a friend of mine, might be able to suggest some simpler treatment, which would not require Warburton leaving his family home. But Watson says he is not certain it is madness at all, and so he asked me here.”

“Quite so,” I said, carefully thinking over everything he had said. “His children, and their spouses – what are their professions? Have they taken to Miss Warburton?”

“His son is responsible for most of the management of the estate, now. His daughter is married to a man called Mitchell, who owns some kind of shop in Chester. He isn’t a shopkeeper, he manages business. But they visit the family home quite often. Millicent likes them well enough, and they have been nothing but kindness to her, she says.”

Useless without further information. That should be one of the first things to look into, then. “What are the symptoms of this madness? Did it start at once with violence, or did Warburton perceive it coming on more gradually?”

“According to Mr Warburton it was very sudden. He claims the Colonel attacked him as an intruder only a few days after he began to withdraw from the rest of the family. Mr Warburton and Mrs Mitchell say he has sudden changes of mood, when he speaks wildly and insultingly to them, and sometimes with the son it progresses to violence. Millicent has not seen any of that for herself, but she says he seems very melancholy when he is with her. Sometimes he is slow and does not follow her at all, or talks – not nonsense, quite, but not exactly to the point.”

“But what symptoms did the Colonel himself complain of, when he withdrew? Has he said why he does not wish to see his niece?”

“At first I believe it was largely dizziness and a tendency to sleep more than usual. But Millicent said he seemed in some ways better shortly before he started withdrawing from her, and he complained of pain less. Then he began to feel his logic leaving him, so that he might be happy or cast down for no apparent reason. Around then he apparently attacked his son. Millicent says he did not seem to remember that himself. And that frightened him badly enough that he thought it better to stay away from her.”

This was very suggestive. “I shall have to see him for myself,” I said. “And the rest of the household, as well. Have you any idea how that can be managed?”

“I shall be staying there myself this coming week-end,” said Thurston. “Ah – if it were only the doctor I could of course invite him as my friend, and I doubt they would reject his services. But I think – that is, as you are a detective -” He flushed.

“You suspect they will be insulted at the suggestion I might be needed,” I said. “Quite right. However, that part of Cheshire luckily has decent shooting, and it would not be so odd, should you run into a friend staying nearby, that you request that they invite him and his companion to a meal, I should hope.”

“Not at all,” said Thurston. “But the Colonel doesn’t often join the family for meals anymore. He has them sent up.”

“Does he, now?” I asked. “I suppose he started this custom after he began to worry he was mad?”

“It is more frequent now, but I believe even before he was in the habit of having his breakfast and luncheon sent up, and only joining the family in the evenings.”

“Ah. That is most important. Do you know what his tastes are – what dishes he prefers?”

He looked startled. “Well, nothing out of the ordinary, I think. He likes curries, I know that.”

“Thank you. Yes, I think we must go to Cheshire, Watson, if you are free.”

“I have rather too much leisure than too little,” said Watson, smiling.

“We will leave this afternoon, then, and be settled before you arrive, Major. What is the nearest inn?”

“The Bishop, in Alpraham. It’s only a mile from the house.”

“We’ll be staying there. Where has the Bradshaw got to, Watson?”

The train from London to Cheshire takes several hours, and our compartment was missing the curtain on the window in its door. I had brought along my catalogue of poisons, but as I already knew all the information – had, in fact, written the thing myself – it did not absorb me. Watson was leaning back in the opposite seat, reading the _Times_. He’d bought a new copy at the station; I had looked through ours that morning and found it utterly lacking in interest. I think I had set fire to it on my desk afterwards; yes, that was what had sent Watson out of Baker Street in the first place. I ought to know better, by now.

He glanced up, and noticed my boredom. “You missed something,” he said.

“I did?”

“In the paper, when you were maligning it this morning.” He spoke of it quite casually; Watson, unlike any other man but my brother, takes my oddities in his stride. Someday, though, something must be too much, even for him. I hoped it would not be the cocaine; the case had distracted us both, and certainly I did not _want_ to have to speak further of it, but I could feel the pointless urge to justify myself itching under my skin. Thankfully, before I could Watson folded the paper back and showed me an article.

 _Strange Case of Arson in Chiswick_ , read the headline. “It was the cat,” I told him, having seen the page that morning. “Likely it knocked over a lamp in one of the bedrooms.”

He blinked at me, eyebrows raised. “You can tell that simply from that article?”

“It is moderately obvious in this case, Watson. Assuming the article is accurate, of course.”

“You are amazing,” he said, as he always says, smiling at me in a way that made me want to forget the missing curtain. This _damned_ discretion.

I have been called a master of secrecy; under ordinary circumstances I revel in it, keeping back every individual piece of information until I find the perfect time to reveal it. But this is merely using revelation for effect: the revelation is still the point. Secrecy should be a tool, an art, perhaps, but not a necessity.

I would have no wish for my personal life to be public knowledge even were it not illegal. But this _inability_ to speak presses on us. Watson, I think, would tell everyone he knows, shout it from the rooftops, publish us in the papers if he could, and he has a certain expression of thwarted wistfulness that makes me want to take his face in my hands and kiss him until it disappears. Of course, it only shows when that is not possible.

I wonder, sometimes: if I could have Watson whenever I wanted, in any way I wanted – I do not mean sexually, but simply to watch, to touch, to examine, to _know_ – would that be enough? Would I be quite so torn by ennui, then?

There is no way of knowing, of course. I do not think it likely, but I would enjoy the experiment.

We made a connection at Crewe, Watson finding a local paper on the way (nothing informative, very little of interest), and upon our arrival at a small local station found a man from Alpraham with a wagon and a healthy amount of avarice.

There was only a single inn in Alpraham, and no other pub. We entered, and as we booked a room (there was only one free, which made things simple) I got as much out of the innkeeper as possible. Colonel Warburton had evidently been well-respected in the area, but the townspeople were concerned over his health.

“There’s nothing serious, is there?” asked Watson, with an appearance of purely professional interest.

“Couldn’t say, sir, but if there is it ain’t a natural sort of thing – not his age, I mean. He’s been well up to a few months ago, used to be all for sport, and then this came on sudden.”

“Perhaps he was suddenly injured, in a fall or such,” I said.

“No, it ain’t that kind of sickness, sir. It’s his mind, they say. I don’t know, though, he’s not come down to the village and the rest of them wouldn’t.”

“Ain’t right, standoffishness,” said someone – poor, very drunk, a widower. “Rosie Warb -”

“Ain’t standoffish,” said the innkeeper. “Just because they don’t drink here – not what their sort does, is it? Mrs Mitchell doesn’t even live up there anymore, most of the time. Sorry, sirs. You’re just upstairs and on the left. You’ll be wanting supper soon?”

“I shall,” said Watson, glancing at me with a question. I shook my head and passed him my bag.

“I think I shall take a turn around the village before it is quite dark,” I said.

“There ain’t much for you to see sir, around here,” said the innkeeper. “Good walking over the dales, but better to make a day of that. We’re rather proud of our church, though.”

“Thank you,” I said, and escaped before I could hear about the church.

Alpraham was a collection of houses stretched out along a road, the church and the inn itself the only notable buildings. No doctor, no lawyer, ageing vicar – very small, and few connections to the rest of the world. Everything would go through the largest nearby town. Difficult even for the gentry to get many out-of-the-way supplies here, I would think. A point against my theory, until I knew more about the people at Warburton House. I examined the goods in the single store just before it closed, and found that all the purchases from Warburton House were made by the servants. Even worse.

I returned to the hotel after dark, going straight past the dining room towards the stairs. Watson would have eaten already, and I wasn’t hungry and needed my energy for brain work. I entered our room and locked the door carefully behind me. Watson was seated at the table, a sheet of paper in front of him and a pile of others to one side.

“Still at your scribblings?” I asked.

“I thought you found my case notes useful,” he said mildly.

“Your notes, yes. But those aren’t notes, Watson; I distinctly make out full paragraphs.” Besides, his notes were kept in a journal, not loose-leaved.

“Writing has paid my half of the rent before,” he said, smiling at me.

I leaned against the back of his chair. “Your medical writings, yes, and your articles. But my dear fellow, this is fiction. Or what you call fiction, anyway.”

“It’s rather more colourful than the truth of it,” he said. He was still smiling, but nervously. I kissed the side of his neck. He relaxed slightly, so I did it again.

“I might as well try to write next to a man-eating tiger,” he said. I did not take this as discouragement, and by the way he leaned against me when I bit at his neck he hadn’t meant it so. He meticulously stoppered his inkwell and sorted his papers into a neat stack, by all appearances ignoring my attentions apart from involuntary shivers. Then he put out the lamp and stood, quite suddenly, and pulled me into his arms.

“Have you seen what you wanted?” he asked, his hand sliding behind my head.

“Oh, yes,” I told him, not referring to the village, and he kissed me, his tongue sliding my lips open.

“Good,” he said, his voice low. “So have I.”

“The door is locked,” I told him.

That was all either of us needed to know. Shortly we were on the bed, half unbuttoned and pushing at each others’ remaining clothes. He was warm and muscled and beautiful next to me in the candlelight, and his hands as always drew sensation from the most unexpected places.

“Still too thin,” he murmured after he had my shirt off. It was not quite his usual tone for such remarks. I ignored that, sighed with pleasure as he ran a finger along the edge of my ribcage, and then pulled him to kiss me and stop making irrelevant comments. Once I had him unconsciously rubbing against my hip I starting undressing him properly. He had not even removed his waistcoat, which would never do.

When we were both naked I pulled him under the blankets before he had time to shiver, and licked at his nipple, which made him do more than shiver. “My love,” he whispered, and I moved further down.

I licked and sucked at him until he was rigid with tension, making little thwarted gasps, his hips jerking against me, and then took him fully into my mouth. Men of our sort must learn silence in such matters, but the sound of John desperately holding back his moans has its own charm. His pleasure always affects me, and I took him faster and harder than I intended.

When he climaxed he gasped out my name under his breath and held my head against him until he was finished. Then I shoved myself higher on the bed until I was lying next to him, kissing his throat wildly and thrusting against his thigh. He reached for me and stroked me, drawing it out as I pressed myself against him wanting more, until at last I sighed against his shoulder with my release.

We lay there for some time, warm and comfortable and deeply unwilling to move. He held me close as I began drifting off. My feet were hanging off the end of the bed, but that was inevitable.

At some point he pinched out the candle, but I only woke enough to be sure it was him moving and not some intruder. “I should take the other bed, dearest,” he whispered, but I was lying half on his chest and he did not try to move me.

In the morning I quickly disarranged the second bed as he shaved before breakfast. I know better than to disturb a man holding a blade, but it is still better that I not watch while Watson shaves. The man is far too distracting for my own good.

“What will we be doing today?” Watson asked over breakfast.

“You, I am afraid, must stay here and await Thurston, if he arrives. I will go and talk to the Warburtons’ stablemen.”

“Is that not rather risky? You might be seen by the family.”

“No. I shall go as a local man looking for work.”

Watson stared at me. “You’re disguising yourself as a _local_?”

“Yes,” I said. Luckily I generally made a habit of packing a set of workman’s clothes, and those were more or less the same everywhere.

“My dear Holmes,” said Watson, “not that I don’t have the greatest respect for your skills, but...”

“Tha thinks I can’t do’t?” I asked him, and watched with pleasure as his jaw dropped.

“I grew up in Yorkshire,” I explained. “Did I never tell you?”

He shook his head. “I know so little about your past,” he said.

“I could not pass for a native here, but I’ll manage well enough as a Yorkshireman for a morning,” I said. “Luckily the most well known quality of that race is that they do not chatter. Don’t worry about me, Watson.”

Two hours later, I approached the stables at Warburton House looking appropriately dusty and whistling something our cook had used to sing. This would be harder than I had admitted to Watson in my bravado. But I do know horses: I have in the past cared for them entirely on my own, and once, when I had not had a case for months on end, worked as a stable-hand at the racetracks in London. I care little for racing or such sports, but horses themselves, oddly enough, I find to be quite comfortable company. And one can tell a surprising amount about a man by the state of his horse.

It worked quite well; the only difficulty was the first meeting. But the disguise passed, and “with the guests,” said the groom, “we need the help.” After that there was no role to be played. Wood, as I called myself, was a man with some experience with horses, who could be trusted with the tack, but wasn’t good enough to keep on after a few hours – that is to say, he had the same skills as I. Disinterest is only rarely hard for me to feign, and the history of the Warburtons was not as enlightening or fascinating as one might hope. I did not even have to prompt – the mention of ‘guests’ had quite easily sent the other two hands onto their own conversation about them.

The son and his wife lived at the house; the daughter and her husband, a chemist in Chester, visited at least monthly. The niece had very little to do with the stables, and so I was not over-burdened with information about her or her fiancé. Warburton himself, unfortunately, no longer rode or, these days, used his carriage.

But the conversation and the condition of the various horses was useful enough, for it seemed the Mitchells drove from Chester whenever they wished to come, rather than taking a train. It was a hindrance that I could not appear to be at all curious, but I am used to that.

When I thought I had all I could from them, mainly concerning timing and luggage, and they had begun to speak of the other servants and then moved from them to the village, I made a rather glaring error and the head stableman frowned at me. “Well enough,” he said, “and here’s half a sov, but we won’t be needing you more.” I merely twisted my face a little in disdain, and was careful not to whistle again until I was well on my way back to the village.

When I returned to the inn, Watson was lunching with Thurston in the dining room. I passed up to our rooms, changed my clothes and attitude, and sneaked out the back door so I could come in the front again naturally and join them.

I had not observed properly in the bare moment I had; there were three of them. “Watson,” I said, as Thurston had already seen me. “Thurston. How are you? And this is your fiancée?”

“Yes,” said Thurston. “Miss Millicent Warburton, Sherlock Holmes.” He looked at her with open affection.

Her face was more used to smiles than frowns, but she was too young to tell much more than that, except that she had been severely worried for a relatively long period of time. No gloves, thankfully – much easier to read from than most women's hands. A faint fading tan on them – she didn't wear gloves at all, then. A few small calluses – she had done some little regular work, but not recently – she’d seen to her father’s needs in India, but no longer needed to. The only strong indication was the roughening of the tips of her index fingers, produced by embroidery. They had walked here – dust on her skirt and their shoes – but she showed no signs of fatigue, though they had only arrived a few minutes before me. Accustomed to exercise, not squeamish about work, but not one to seek either out, beyond long walks. Neither fashionable nor dowdy.

She was, in short, perfectly average, a buxom blonde woman, likely kind enough but without much depth or scope. It is a common failing in women, whether bred in or inherent I cannot say: that tendency not to consider the world outside of one’s home. It is deeply frustrating when it occurs in a woman with the intelligence or personality for greater things, but such, I thought, was not the case with Miss Warburton; whether by nature or education, she would fit quite well as the mistress of a household, and would not look for or be suited to anything greater. In India she must have been just the same; her thoughts going to her father’s comfort rather than the business of the Army or the land around her. Admittedly, her actions after Thurston was wounded suggested a level of honour and loyalty that I could appreciate.

And Watson, as he glanced at her, was looking not quite as usual. Probably he did not even realize his attraction himself. Well, this female was spoken for, at least.

We engaged in some deeply irritating small talk, and secured an invitation to dinner that evening. I got everything I could on the matter out of Miss Warburton, which served to confirm my suspicions.

“Have you a theory?” Watson asked after they left.

“Several,” I told him. “It should not be too difficult to unravel, though I suspect rather unpleasant for all concerned.”

“You think it is definitely foul play?”

“Oh yes, I should say so.”

“Drugs, then,” he guessed.

“Rather obvious, is it not?”

After that matters should have gone quickly enough, but I dislike dinner parties in the extreme and this one was no different, so the time rather dragged on. Watson knew I was planning as we approached the house, and said, “Are you going to tell me what you intend to do, Holmes?”

“Hmm?” I said. “I have no certainty as yet.”

“I suppose I should have known better than to ask.” He was grinning up at me, I saw, and I found myself terribly distracted. “Do you think you’ll bring it to a head this evening?”

“I hope so,” I said, looking into his blue eyes. “I’ve better things to do tonight than sit in suspense for tomorrow.”

Watson laughed, and smiled in a certain way he has, and then we were too close to the house for further private conversation.

One must always be indirect in questionings, never giving any sign which information is wanted and which useless, but being buried under unnecessary information is to no benefit at all. Watson is amazed at the conclusions I can draw from the slightest hints, but in fact sorting the essential from the trivial is far easier when there is very little of both.

Asking after the house led me to a long discussion of its architecture and the family history, which only interested me when they at last reached the current century. It was not all useless – I could readily enough divine that the cost of upkeep was far more than any income gained from the property – but it was decidedly dull. But eventually they came around to information of relevance.

“It isn’t entailed?” Watson asked. He was looking a little too interested; he had figured out for himself the importance of that point. I suppressed any reaction and examined the portrait behind Mrs Mitchell, so that we should not both seem too eager.

“No, we’re nothing so grand as that,” said Mr Warburton. “And I don’t see the point of passing down a house without necessarily the money required to keep it up. Too many old families are losing that, now.”

I asked no questions about that – it would be declassé and suspicious both. Watson glanced at me and then followed my lead as the conversation went to innocent channels.

It soon became clear, however, that Miss Warburton was determinedly steering the conversation to the subject of her uncle, with precious little subtlety. She was at least intelligent enough to keep her eyes on Watson rather than me as she did so. He played along quite well, seeming agreeable but not too eager.

“The doctor is here on holiday, Millicent,” said Mrs Warburton at last. “You should not feel obligated to do any such thing, Dr. Watson. Indeed, I doubt father would be up to it.”

“It does not take much energy to sit still for an examination,” said Miss Warburton.

“I could certainly examine him, and take care not to bother him during it, if you wish it,” said Watson. “As a favour.”

“No, we must not impose upon you. And the way he reacts to strangers now – well. We don’t want to worry him overmuch. Do stop, Millicent. Shall we withdraw, and leave the men to their port?”

When that tedious ritual was over, I caught Watson’s hand on our way to the drawing room. “Should I happen to disappear later,” I murmured to him, “you shall be amazed and unsure where I am.” He blinked at me, but nodded. He drew me a little to the side as we entered the drawing room. 

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Let the Warburtons and Mitchells look for me if they wish, but for God’s sake stay within earshot of them.” He nodded.

While we were being exposed to Miss Warburton’s indifferent musical skills, I slipped out of the drawing room and wandered off.

It takes a certain knack to explore a house during the day. Avoiding servants is the main concern, but by no means the only one. The presence of servants is of course also helpful, in that stray noises will more likely be ignored. One must, however, be able to recognize which objects cannot be displaced without notice.

Such was certainly the case for the unlabelled paper packets of white powder in the back of a drawer in Mr Warburton’s room, one sealed and one nearly empty. Luckily, I wanted their absence noted, though I did not at all like to have the substance on my person.

Once I had made certain that was all of it, though, it was merely a matter of waiting. I was rather irritated that it had been so easy to find, but of course it would need to be easily accessible. But I would likely spend at least a quarter of an hour bored. Or – I hesitated. Perhaps not.

The Colonel’s room – close to his son’s, of course – was not hard to point out, and it did, as I had thought, have a convenient table nearby upon which one might lay a tray, to be accepted later. I considered the merits of trying the door. Probably not justified by the evidence, likely not by morality. It was unlocked. Dinnertime, of course.

There was a separate sitting room, with a door on the right hand wall doubtless leading to a bedroom. The windows were covered with blinds and heavy curtains, casting a general gloom over the remembrances of the army. It is a deeply inconvenient taste in decoration for the observer.

The Colonel was nowhere in sight, and so probably in his bedroom, eating or having just finished dinner. Or asleep – I hoped not. There was an ornate brass samovar near his bedroom door. I picked up an ashtray from a side table and struck the metal with it, producing a satisfying clang.

“Mary?” he called. “Mary, is that you? Stop knocking things over and come take my tray.”

Good, in that it confirmed my theory; bad in that the maid herself might arrive at any time. I struck the samovar again and dropped the ashtray.

A groan, footsteps, and then the man himself, peering out of the cracked-open door. “Oh,” he said. “Who are you?”

No serious concern – not at all what one would expect from a man with a stranger in his rooms. “A guest,” I said. “I was looking for the necessary. I _am_ sorry about this. It is dim in here, isn’t it?” I bent and retrieved the ashtray. He smiled to hide confusion.

“They ought to tell me when they have guests,” he said. His tone was rather wistful. “You ought to be down the hall a ways. I don’t like this. Where’s Mary?”

He wasn’t talking to me, but to himself, as he wandered back to his bed. Not the normal illness of old age, and certainly not violence. I returned to Mr Warburton’s room and began a productive study of his possessions in order to pass the time.

At last I heard footsteps in the hallway and doors opening. I returned to the dresser in which I had found the packets and reopened the drawer. This nicely arranged tableau was what Mr Warburton saw when he noticed his room’s door was ajar and stepped in.

“There you are!” he said. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

“A better question,” said I, “would be what three grams of morphine are doing in your room.”

He advanced toward me. “Get your nose out of other people’s business,” he advised. “There’s no good reason for you to be here. I’ll be right down to tell your friends what sort of man you are. Stealing from our house at a dinner party, obviously -” Despite his words he continued to approach me.

“Not stealing at all, as you know,” I said. “And you know why you aren’t going to want knowledge of the contents of your drawers spread around. In fact, let us go down together, so that we have witnesses to this conversation.”

Had I been seriously concerned as to my safety it would have been a stupid thing to say. But as my intention was the opposite it worked well enough for my purposes. Warburton grabbed me.

“You’ll keep your goddamned mouth shut,” he said. “How are you going to explain what the hell you were doing here anyway? You won’t tell anyone.”

“I am a consulting detective,” I said. “I think you’ll find I have perfectly good reasons to be here.”

“Like hell you do,” he said. His grip was becoming more violent. Not quite what I wanted yet. “You don’t have a scrap of evidence against me, and I can damned well ruin you.”

“I have all the evidence I need,” I said. “I have two packages of pure morphine, and I’ve talked to your father.”

“You damned -” His hands tightened on my shoulders and slipped toward my throat. Excellent. I waited until I was gasping, and then used all the volume I had left to yell. His hands loosened marginally, which I used for a breath of air and another shout. He reflexively tightened his fingers, and I was thinking that I should begin to fight him off before he decided that having started he might as well finish the job when Watson and Thurston rushed in.

“Mr Warburton!” said Thurston as Watson tore the man off me.

When Mr Warburton was secured I massaged my throat and tried not to smirk. Thurston was staring at his host in horror. “My God,” he said. “What on earth possessed you?”

“I suspect,” I said, “it was his concern over my discovery of this.” I produced the morphine. “This is rather a large quantity of morphine, and the Colonel’s symptoms as I observed them seem to accord with its effects quite well.”

“Ah, no, actually,” said Watson, still holding Mr Warburton still. “Morphine would not cause violence, Holmes.”

“I said ‘as I observed them,’ Watson,” I said. “I have just now entered the Colonel’s rooms with no invitation and no explanation for my presence, and despite provocation which – as we have seen – would cause an ordinary man to be furious, he was merely confused and almost dazed.”

“I was told he was violent,” said Thurston with some confusion.

“Of course. He no doubt believed it as well. They have been lying to you and him about his behaviour when he was in fact asleep.”

“This is nonsense!” said Warburton.

“And yet you have given no alternate explanation for this amount of morphine in your rooms, or for why your father’s observable behaviour differs so significantly from your account of it,” I said. “Were I you, I would start with those.”

“There’s no evidence that’s morphine at all, or that you didn’t bring it with you,” said Warburton, still struggling against Watson, though most of his energy was focused elsewhere.

“Morphine?” asked a female voice. Miss Warburton had entered the scene. “Cousin Thomas, have you been treating Uncle with _morphine_? What for?”

“I – that is, we spoke to a doctor -”

“But you have told me you would not take him to a doctor,” said Miss Warburton. “You would not let Dr. Watson examine him. What have you been doing to him?”

“Say rather,” said Warburton with some heat, “what has this man been doing in my house, and my private room?”

“I admit,” I said, “that I am certainly here under false pretences. I was employed to look into this matter, and I agree it is reprehensible of me to use a social call as an excuse for investigation. But how much more dishonourable is it for a son to deliberately poison his father, for any motives?”

“Employed by whom?” Warburton demanded.

“By me,” said Thurston.

“On my behalf,” Miss Warburton said quickly. “I had hoped merely for Dr. Watson’s opinion, but I did not believe then that you would do anything like this.”

“And now you so suddenly do, miss?” said Warburton. “If you repay our hospitality by inviting private detectives into our affairs -”

“Speaking of Dr. Watson,” I said, “surely he can clear this matter up?”

“Yes,” said Thurston. “Let us have his medical opinion of the Colonel. It should not be difficult to diagnose morphine use if it is present.”

“Or if it is not present but he is looking for it,” said Warburton. “Why should I trust a doctor _you_ bring here?”

“Shall I repeat my Hippocratic oath?” asked Watson.

“The point,” said Thurston, “is not whether _you_ trust him but whether _we_ do. I know Watson from India. I am quite willing to defer to his judgement as a physician.”

“And I,” said Miss Warburton. “If you are right, Cousin, and Uncle is in fact mad, then he will diagnose that as well. Let’s go, then.”

“Will you come willingly?” Watson asked the man he was still holding. Warburton nodded sharply, and Watson let him go with some relief.

The five of us crossed the hall to Colonel Warburton’s rooms. Miss Warburton strode to the bedroom door and knocked, and her uncle appeared shortly, looking tired but a bit less confused than he had at my appearance. “Millie,” he said, “is everything all right?”

“Yes,” said Miss Warburton. “But Dr. Watson was kind enough to offer to give you his professional opinion, if you don’t object.”

The Colonel paled for a second, then visibly steeled himself. “Yes, of course,” he said. “About time to have a medical chap in here, I suppose. All right, then.”

“This won’t take long, sir,” said Watson. He had drawn himself up, and I realized that, in this case at least, his assumption of a military attitude was entirely deliberate. “We’ll go to your room, if you don’t mind, and I will defer to your knowledge of what will make you more comfortable. The rest of you, of course, feel free to wait here.” He looked pointedly at the settee and armchairs, and first the three of us, then Warburton, sat, the latter with obvious reluctance.

The wait was exceptionally tedious. I knew what the conclusion would be, unless there was some unforeseen element, and there is nothing duller than waiting to hear an answer you already know. I occupied myself in examining the other three. Warburton was clearly searching for a defensive explanation. Miss Warburton was pale but determined, Thurston entirely supportive of her.

Watson at last left the bedroom. “His symptoms are most definitely caused by morphine,” he said. “There is no incurable addiction, likely only a strong tolerance. The symptoms will continue for some time, but if the source is removed he will not grow to crave it. There may be some pain, however.”

“I am horrified,” said Warburton. “Assuming you are telling the truth. He must have begun taking it secretly, for some pain we didn’t know of -”

“Are you claiming, then that you knew nothing of the drug hidden in your own room?” I asked. “Search his rooms for a supply, if you like, but I doubt you will find one.”

“You must go, Thomas,” said Miss Warburton. “I won’t have you trying anything like that to Uncle again.”

“Who are you to throw me out of my own house, missy?” said her cousin.

“This must be discussed with your family,” said Thurston. “We must all go downstairs. The Colonel too, perhaps.”

“Certainly Uncle too,” said Miss Warburton.

“I think,” said Watson, “that I had better break the news to him first. You might wish to come too, Miss Warburton.”

I must admit I don’t know what Watson said, but shortly he returned with the Colonel, Miss Warburton assisting him. The old man’s expression was grim, and he did not look at his son.

It should be obvious from the preceding what happened next. Watson, when he writes his fictions, leaves half the facts until the end, and he can perhaps be forgiven for doing so for the sake of the narrative form. But having already had my moment of triumph I feel little need to relive it.

After they understood that their father and cousin knew everything, Mrs Warburton had a calculated fit of the vapours, Mrs Mitchell looked as if she wanted to strangle her brother, and Mr Mitchell went genuinely pale and started talking.

It had been for money, of course. The Colonel had made an appointment with his solicitor in Chester early that summer, and this combined with his fondness for his niece had led Mr Warburton to wild heights of unverified speculation. He had therefore ensured his father was too ill to visit the solicitor, and then decided that the only way forward was to prevent the Colonel from being declared of sound mind should he wish to change his will. As Mitchell ran a firm of chemists, he had the means readily to hand.

No one in the family wanted the police involved, except perhaps Miss Warburton. The Colonel’s children, therefore, departed to the Mitchells’ home in Chester immediately. Further action was to be postponed until Colonel Warburton was feeling more himself.

Watson provided what help and medical advice he could to Miss Warburton and her uncle, but we were not needed for much besides that. A confession is an excellent way to avoid having to explain one’s reasoning. Though Watson would no doubt ask later. For him, of course, it was the opposite of a hardship.

When there was little else useful we could do, we declined the offer of a carriage and walked back to the village. Watson leaned against me slightly, not from pain in his leg but simply because there was no one around to see. I have little interest in the country for its own sake, but it has its advantages at times.

“Well,” he said, “that went better than I had thought it might, earlier this evening. Holmes, it may be hypocritical for me to object to you recklessly risking your life, but I vastly prefer it when you inform me of that intention beforehand.”

“I did,” I protested.

Watson covered his face with a hand. “More explicitly, next time,” he said. “Really, Holmes, a man capable of drugging his own father for such a reason would stop at nothing, and you went and deliberately provoked him.”

“I doubt he was as desperate as you imagine,” I said. “People are very good at concealing the consequences of their actions from themselves – the family no doubt believed they were doing no serious harm, and perhaps that it was for the best that the Colonel end up in an asylum, rather than that they be forced to care for him as he aged.”

Watson sighed. He is both incurably idealistic and very experienced with the worst aspects of human nature. His paradoxes are part of his charm, and I study them in hopes that I might eventually manage to combine such a faith with the scepticism necessary to my work. Now he merely said, “One cannot lie to oneself about such a thing without knowing it. But how terrible.”

“Yes. But you must know, Watson, I was in no danger. He was not prepared to kill me, merely impulsive.”

Watson sighed, then with a slightly forced cheer smiled. “I should hope not,” he said. His eyes expressed an emotion he was no doubt about to give voice to.

“Your presence was exceptionally helpful,” I said. “I don’t mean solely for wrestling Warburton off me, though of course I am grateful for that. But I think Warburton must have been comforted by the presence of a military man.”

“I think so, yes,” said Watson. “Given his situation anything familiar would help. I still can’t believe, when so many are shamed by a relative’s addiction, that his own children would do such a thing.”

“Many families are quite happy to have a relative take laudanum, if it keeps them biddable,” I said. “Family feeling is not a reliable predictor of actions.”

“Of course.” He looked up at me for a moment, then his eyes flashed back down. He would not say anything now. He might work himself up to it on the train home, depending.

“I do know better, Watson,” I said, speeding my pace.

“However did you start?” It was quiet enough that he likely did not mean me to hear it at all, but he does tend to underestimate my hearing.

He thinks so much of me, and then is shocked when I am not what he expects. I don’t mind it much – I _am_ extraordinary, most of the time. But I had never seen so clearly the gap between myself as I am and how he saw me. It was disconcerting.

I said nothing. I do not find my own past a worthwhile topic of conversation, and even less so the period in question.

He did not speak further before we returned to the inn. And we did not engage in _better things_ , although I do not mean to imply by that that matters were cold between us. Quite the opposite.

We started for London as soon as possible the next morning, with what little luggage we had. I dislike staying for long in the country without some definite object, even those rare times when tedium is not added to its other flaws. Once we were on the Express from Chester to London, Watson leaned back in the seat across from me and smiled.

“I think it will end well,” he said. “I’ll write Thurston. But there is nothing seriously wrong with the Colonel’s health, and he cannot have been given the morphine long enough to become truly addicted. After a little ill health from the withdrawal, he should regain his strength and manage very well for years yet. Miss Warburton should be happy, and I gather than the Colonel is fond of Thurston.”

“Excellent,” I said, looking out the window.

“Cocaine can be as addictive as morphine, Holmes.”

That was more direct than I had expected. “Addiction is not a concern,” I said. “For me it is a substitute for more natural excitement, rather than an end in itself.”

“That’s not medically meaningful,” said Watson. “And its effects, in both the short and long term, are too much for the system to sustain with equanimity. Please tell me you will reduce your use of it.”

“I use it but little, my dear Watson, as I told you. I can attempt to use it less, if things go well for me.”

“Thank you,” said Watson. “Holmes, if you are in one of your black moods, you must know that I am always ready to serve you, however you need me.”

I had heard the same sentiment before. Not, admittedly, from someone with the same knowledge of me as Watson had by now. He certainly believed it, at least, which was a comfort even if I did not intend to expose him to the worst of my moods.

“I will remember that,” I said.

“It is no hardship,” he said, smiling.

A lie, whether he knew it or not. If I was mad enough to depend on him entirely he would tire of it soon enough, and look for a more acceptable life. I thought of Watson’s utterly conventional friend, engaged to a heiress and looking forward to a proper, idle life with no more excitement than speculating on the Exchange.

Then I remembered Watson’s grin as we walked toward the house, and realized my folly. Watson thrived on excitement, as I did – all I had to do was promise more of it, and, I thought, there was little chance of it running out while I still had my profession. Cases, I thought, interesting or active or sensational – all the cases I could find. But I had spent the last several years searching for cases – it would be no difficulty. How excellent, that he enjoyed them as much as I. They were what I needed him for, after all.


End file.
